“Fancy stabbing a man for jealousy!” she thought. But you must leave us now, dear Winny, Jack and I have something to settle between ourselves. She told us that it was a disguise. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. “What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters.
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